


Rescuing Andrea

by Ruth_Devero



Category: Battlestar Galactica (1978), Galactica 1980
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: Written in 1983, my obligatory rescue-Starbuck story for old-styleBattlestar Galactica.  Strand that sweet, social guy all by his lonesome on a desert planet?  What were theythinking?





	

He was pushed into darkness and landed, of course, on his bruised shoulder. Behind him the door clanged shut, closing off light, closing off warmth. He heard the guards tramp off down the hall—then silence.

Lieutenant Starbuck, late of Blue Squadron, Battlestar _Galactica_ , sat up and permitted himself a small groan. Frack! The first ship to land on this planet in a yahren, and it had to be full of Cylons. He groaned again, louder this time, indulging in a little self-pity—and suddenly he heard a gasp. It came from in front; his hand automatically brushed an empty holster.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

A small scrabble. Someone coming after him, or someone trying to get away?

“Who is that?”

Suddenly a soft voice came out of the darkness: “Who are you?”

Oh, Lords of Kobol, _thank_ you! _Female!_ But training made him cautious, though Starbuck’s voice shook as he said, “I’m a prisoner.”

A scrabble again, coming nearer. Then, hands on his face, on his shoulder, on both shoulders. “Human!” a voice cried jubilantly, and the hands squeezed.

Starbuck stifled a cry of pain and twisted his sore shoulder out of reach. “Easy there!” His hands did a little exploring of their own, brushing a silky cheek, patting slim shoulders, caressing smooth hair, a soft breast—

“Watch it!” The soft voice held a core of ice.

“Human! You’re human!” he gasped. _And female!_ his brain added. “Are you from the _Pegasus_?” he blurted out, and immediately he wished he hadn’t. How did he know she wasn’t a spy for the Cylons?

“The what?” asked the girl.

“Uh—nothing. Who are you? How did you get here?”

“We—um—we, like, crashed.” Her voice had a crisp edge to it. “They shot us down and we crashed. My name’s Andrea Pulaski. Like, what’s yours?”

“Starbuck.”

“Starbuck. Is that your first name or your last name?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Starbuck—is that, like, your first name or your last name?”

“It’s the only name I’ve got!”

“Oh.” Silence.

But he was going to understand this if it took all night. It had been too hard a day for any confusion now. “How many names have you got?”

“Three. Andrea Marietta Pulaski.”

“ _Three names?_ ”

“Well, if I ever get married, I’ll, like, have four. I’ll hyphenate. _You_ know.”

This was worse than before. He didn’t know. “You mean, on your planet people have three or four names?”

“Oh, for sure. Some of us more. Don’t your people?”

“No.”

It took half a centon for this to sink in, then they both began, “Doesn’t that get—”

“—confusing?” Andrea Marietta Pulaski finished.

Evidently it did not, so that line of conversation was closed.

“Well, listen, like, I have these blankets over there, and if you promise not to try anything, we can share them. It’s cold.” Andrea Marietta Pulaski took Starbuck’s hand and drew him with her as she scrambled through the darkness. _Try anything?_ What did that mean?

Soon his hand touched rough fabric lying on the metal floor. After much squirming and tugging of blankets, Starbuck and Andrea Marietta Pulaski sat huddled together, wrapped to the chins, backs against the wall. She smelled wonderful—warm and womany. It was a situation which Starbuck would have liked to explore the possibilities of, but he was tired, his shoulder ached, and he needed information. Fast.

“Andrea Marietta Pulaski, where are the—”

A giggle interrupted him. “Don’t use my whole name, silly!”

Don’t use her whole— Starbuck took a deep breath and tried again. “Where are the rest of your people?”

Beside him, Andrea Pulaski stiffened. “Dead. They, like, died when we crashed.”

“I’m sorry. Did the cylons shoot you down?”

“Say what?”

“The Cylons.”

“Is that what those, like, shiny robots are called?”

Starbuck gaped at the darkness where Andrea Pulaski sat. Where in the Twelve Colonies could she have come from, that she had never heard of the Cylons? “Haven’t you ever heard of them?”

“No. Should I?”

_Think fast, Starbuck_. What was she up to? But would a human spy deny _all_ knowledge of the Cylons? “Of course you should have,” he said lightly. “The war? The Final Destruction? Don’t they teach history any more?”

Andrea Pulaski’s voice held puzzlement as well as a bit of laughter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Like, I’m not _from_ these parts.”

“Oh.” But still—

“Are you at war with them? Are you from some—battlestar or something? They keep asking me about that.”

_Watch it, Starbuck_. “What did you tell them?”

“That I didn’t know what they were talking about. Because I didn’t. And I still don’t. Are they, like, bad guys or something?”

Cylons? Bad guys? “Well, you could put it that way, I guess.” This was tiring and confusing, and Starbuck wished he had a fumarello—not for the first time in the last yahren—or maybe some of that home brew he had managed to concoct. It had been a long day, what with the distant _whump!_ of what must have been the crash of Andrea Pulaski’s craft interrupting breakfast, the day-long search for what turned out to be a crumpled alien vessel crawling with a gut-wrenching number of Cylons, the bruising tumble he had taken when a rock shifted under his foot, and his own humiliating capture—he, _Starbuck_ , of all people! He’d wished for some excitement, but suddenly this was too much to really enjoy.

“Are you from that battlestar thing?” Andrea Pulaski was asking.

“Well, not any more.” They’d learn the truth some time. “I crashed here.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Andrea Pulaski’s voice was warm with sympathy. “Have you been here long?”

“About a yahren.” Long enough.

“A what?”

“A yahren. It’s a unit of time,” Starbuck said sarcastically. “A _long_ unit of time.”

Andrea Pulaski sighed. “Oh, Andrea. What with yahrens and Cylons and battlestar thingies, you’re a long way from home, Andrea Pulaski.” Her sigh this time was wistful.

For no real reason, Starbuck suddenly felt contrite. “Where are you from?” he said.

“Oh, way far away.” Her voice was sad. “It’s out there _some_ where. I don’t think I’ll ever get back.”

The silence was too full of yearning for Starbuck to let it go on long, so, “How did you leave?” he asked.

“Oh, I didn’t _want_ to, but— Do you believe in UFO’s?”

The new direction confused him as much as did the strange term. “What?”

“Unidentified Flying Objects. Flying saucers. You know—like, spaceships from—” She paused. “—from—from outer space … ” she said almost in a whisper.

“Oh,” he said encouragingly, after a pause.

“Well, anyway—some people don’t believe in them, but _I_ do—I for sure really do, because … Do you know there are people actually selling other people into _slavery_ in this universe? Can you believe that? It’s so gross! I thought they were supposed to be so civilized!”

Starbuck could believe anything was possible; her outraged tone amused him. But he felt like shaking her, because that seemed the only way to get the story out of her. “So?”

“Well, they, like, _swoop_ down onto these planets, and they, like, _grab_ these people and they take them places and they _sell_ them. I can’t believe that. Can you?”

“Is that what happened?”

“Yes.” Her voice was very small. “Except they couldn’t sell me because they couldn’t find a buyer because, like, the planets weren’t the right kind, and we kept landing on all these places, and they were going to just dump me someplace, but those Cylons got us and we crashed.” The strained tone in which she delivered that rush of words kept him from asking anything more, but she went on.

“But they’re not even curious. I mean, they just, like, _land_ on these planets and _grab_ people and don’t even try to _talk_ to anybody. They don’t even, like, try to go talk to the President of the United _Nations_ , even. It’s, like, totally unreal. They just grab people and run. It’s like we’re just some game preserve or something. I just can’t _believe_ that.”

It occurred wearily to Starbuck that Andrea Pulaski was going to come up against much, much more that she just couldn’t believe before she finally left the universe altogether. It also occurred to him that if he did not cut the conversation short he would be treated to a list of all the other things she just couldn’t believe, and that list could, like, run the entire night.

But, “God, I’m tired,” she said. “I’m just, like, babbling on and on and on. I’m going to shut up now. Good night, Mr. Starbuck.”

“Lieutenant,” he said, though it did not matter.

“Lieutenant.” She sounded sleepy. “Oh-h-h, you’re a warm one.”

Andrea Pulaski snuggled up against him. She was a warm one, too, he thought. And on that thought he fell asleep.

—

Starbuck was the first to wake the next morning. Dawn filtered in through a small observation port, and he got his first look at Andrea Pulaski. Starbuck’s heart skipped a beat, for there lay Cassiopeia.

But different. The hair, a moon-washed gold, was short; the profile was not quite Cassie’s. Andrea Pulaski was slighter, paler, more fragile. And slightly bruised. And, Cassie would never wear mottled blue trousers, or a pink long-sleeved shirt that pictured a round-eared, long-tailed creature wearing short red trousers and big shoes—which must have some religious significance. But at first glance she _was_ Cassie, and her eyes, Starbuck saw when she opened them, were wide, like Cassie’s, but brown. He stared openly as she stretched and yawned, and then made a face.

“Oh, ble-e-ech. I have _got_ to brush my teeth.” Andrea Pulaski sat up. “Oh, god, I wish I had some coffee. Do you have a ciggie?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, never mind. It’s bad for you and I’ve never smoked, anyway—well, not much—but I’ve just got this _craving_.” Then she stopped and looked at him—really looked at him. “Oh, you’re really _awesome_ , aren’t you?” she said admiringly.

What a nice girl. And she smoked, too. Things were looking brighter.

Until, of course, the door of their cell slid open and half the Cylon army marched into the room.

At least it seemed that way, though there were only four. Starbuck reacted instinctively, drawing Andrea Pulaski to a safer place behind him, fumbling at his empty holster. The Cylons stood impassively near the door, guns at ready.

“You will come with us,” one finally intoned.

Well, when outnumbered, go with the majority. Starbuck shrugged and exited with an open-mouthed Andrea Pulaski. “Are they, like, for real?” she whispered, and Starbuck stared at her. There was no real answer to such a question.

They had been prisoners in what appeared to have been the hold of the slave ship that had taken Andrea Pulaski. Now they walked down a corridor littered with debris from the crash. The ship had not been built for humans; the scale was too big. The ceiling was far above their heads, and the sills of the hatchways came up to Starbuck’s knees. He was not sure he wanted to meet whatever giants had built this ship.

He need not have worried. The bridge—where the Cylons halted—had suffered the greatest damage on impact: the bow of the craft had been pushed back into the ship itself, and great shards of glassteel from the observation port glittered on the floor. What was left of the crew was mingled with the pieces of the ship. One body was half visible: a gigantic bulk vaguely bipedal, with hundreds of tentacles around what appeared to be a mouth, lying in a pool of something that had dried dark-purple. Yesterday had been hot and today was growing warm; the smell was abominable. The Cylons, of course, did not seem to notice, but Andrea Pulaski did. “Oh, ick,” she said and turned away.

A transceiver had been set up in the middle of the bridge, and one of the Cylons stepped up and reported to it. The screen was blank for a micron, then it filled with a face that Starbuck knew well.

“Baltar!” he gasped. It couldn’t be possible. Baltar was aboard the prison barge escorted by the _Galactica_ , a parsec away.

Baltar’s lined face crinkled with his oily, fallen-angel smile. “ _Star_ buck,” he said with the tenderness of a fond father forgiving an erring son.

Starbuck stared stonily at the image on the screen. Baltar had betrayed his own race to the Cylons: had duped the President of the Council of Twelve into negotiating a peace treaty with the enemy and—after the slaughter of millions of defenseless Colonists by Cylons attacking as the treaty was to be signed—he had fawned his way to command of a Cylon basestar, from which he and his Cylon Centurions had harried the surviving Colonists as they fled toward a legendary planet of safety. Starbuck had fallen into Baltar’s hands once before; he did not look forward to repeating the experience, for this time Baltar would not be gentle.

Andrea Pulaski, however, had no such qualms. “Oh, hey,” she said cheerfully. “You’re, like, a real _person_ , aren’t you?”

Starbuck was not slow to appreciate the form of her statement, or the expression on Baltar’s face—so like someone who had just stepped in a pile of daggit droppings.

“Who is _this?_ ” Baltar inquired.

“Andrea,” Starbuck said. “Andrea Marietta Pulaski.”

To his mingled delight and apprehension, Andrea Pulaski stepped forward, toward Baltar’s image. “Oh, hey, what’s your name?” she asked. “You look just like this guy I met in Chicago one time.” A Centurion took hold of her arm and pulled her back, but Andrea Pulaski was too fascinated to notice. “Have you ever been there? You know—Chicago. Illinois. You know—Earth?”

The word dropped into the air, and all in the room froze—that is, all but Andrea Pulaski, who gaped about her in consternation at the sudden silence. Starbuck’s mind kept repeating two things over and over: Earth? Did she say Earth? Then his breathing came back and a chill made its way through his vitals. Now they were—if possible—in even more trouble than before.

A terrible gleam came into Baltar’s eyes. “Earth?” he said. Then, with growing intensity, “ _Earth?_ ”

Andrea Pulaski stepped back, away from Baltar’s frightful joy, stumbling into Starbuck, who took her arm. “Well—yeah,” she said in a small voice. “Yeah. Earth.”

The look that Baltar gave her now, Starbuck thought, probably mirrored the fond anticipation with which a crawlon regarded the fly caught in its web. “So that fool, Adama, was right,” he said. “The Thirteenth Colony _does_ exist. Oh, how I will enjoy learning about your home planet,” he went on, silkily. “I truly look forward to our—discussions.” He smiled at them with malicious benevolence. “Centurions,” he said. “Bring our guests to me. Be careful not to damage them; I wouldn’t want anything to happen to them before we had a chance to—talk.”

“By your command,” one of the Cylon Centurions intoned, and the transceiver went blank.

“Like, what’s going on?” asked Andrea Pulaski.

Starbuck took a deep breath. “Plenty,” he said. _Discussion_ , indeed. It would be torture, more than likely: of Starbuck so that Baltar could learn where the _Galactica_ and the rest of the survivors from the Twelve Colonies were most likely to be; and of Andrea Pulaski in order to discover the location of the legendary planet Earth. With the Cylons’ edict of extermination finally carried through and all the humans in the universe eradicated, Baltar would be that much closer to controlling the universe himself. As Starbuck looked at the uncomprehending Andrea Pulaski, however, something told him that he had better not explain all this to her—at least not yet.

“The ship that was damaged in the battle has not yet been repaired,” droned one of the Centurions.

“We must return the humans to their cell until repairs are finished and we can return to the basestar,” said another.

“You will come with us,” one of the Centurions droned, and so they went with them, back to the cell, Starbuck’s mind racing to find a way to escape.

“Like, I don’t even know what’s going _on_ ,” Andrea Pulaski wailed when the door of their cell had shut.

Even the fly had a right to know what the crawlon had in mind. So Starbuck told her, briefly, of the millennium of war between the humans of the Twelve Colonies and the mechanical Cylons bent on exterminating them; of the peace treaty that turned out to be a trap; of the Final Destruction of twelve helpless worlds and of most of the Colonial fleet; and of the dream of Adama—commander of the surviving battlestar, _Galactica_ —who had gathered the remaining Colonists into two hundred civilian ships and was shepherding them toward the legendary Thirteenth Colony—Earth—hoping that its people would be able to help. Looking at Andrea Pulaski, Starbuck had his doubts about this, but he did not express them.

“Oh, wow,” said Andrea Pulaski. “Just like _Star Wars_.”

“Huh?” said Starbuck, but she did not reply, so he went on, telling her his own story: about his crash here; the reconstruction of Cy—the Cylon who had crashed with him—for companionship; the appearance of a mysterious woman and the birth of her child; and about Cy’s “death” as it defended Starbuck and the others from Cylon attack, about the baby’s escape in a jerry-rigged escape pod, and about the woman’s sudden disappearance.

The subsequent empty yahren he passed over quickly; it did not bear remembering. But the desperation that yahren had bred burned fiercely in him. Starbuck had become a man with an obsession: he would get off this planet or die trying; somehow he would find a way back to the world of humans. For, during the yahren, the rest of the universe had receded for Starbuck, become unreal, for the only real universe he knew was a small desert planet on which he was alone. Stranded, he had come to feel so completely separate from the rest of humankind that the rest of the universe had almost ceased to exist. But now Andrea Pulaski was a link, proof perfect that other worlds awaited. And Baltar provided a real incentive for getting away—and possibly the method. Starbuck was going home.

“Oh, wow,” said Andrea Pulaski. “You’ve been, like, as lonesome and alone as me.”

Startled, Starbuck stared into her eyes, and for a micron or two, he was completely in tune with her; he realized that each understood completely what the other had gone through, was now feeling. It was too much. Starbuck turned away and forced a little laugh. “Oh,” he said, “there were a lot of rocks to talk to.”

“Well,” said Andrea Pulaski, “I, like, for _sure_ don’t want to see that grody Baltar person. Do you, like, have a light saber so you can rescue us?”

“Er—no,” Starbuck said, puzzled. “But I do have a plan.”

One simple fact was not listed in the Viper pilots’ manual, the Book of Strategy, nor taught at the Academy, but Starbuck had realized it himself after many battles with Cylons. This is the fact that Cylon Centurions—programmed to kill, not to think—pay no attention to where their feet are, or to whatever traps they might be stepping into.

So, if two prisoners crouched on either side of a doorway have stretched a twisted blanket tight between them at ankle level, then the first Centurion through the door is likely to trip on the blanket and crash to the floor, losing grip on its laser rifle. And, when this happens, one prisoner can grab the rifle and blast the pogees out of the slow-reflexed Centurions outside the door. Which is what happened in this case.

“All _right!_ ” Andrea Pulaski squealed when Starbuck had done this. He glanced at her, startled. Fear he expected; anxiety he expected; but, glee? There was a lot he would have to learn about Earth women.

“C’mon,” he said, grabbing her hand. He had taken care of only four Cylons; there were bound to be more.

As they stepped over the fallen Cylons, Andrea Pulaski oohed at Starbuck’s handiwork. “Just like Han Solo,” she said.

“Well—thanks,” said Starbuck. He hoped that had been a compliment.

In an open area close to the ship were two Cylon Raiders with engines rumbling gently. Starbuck was not sure he liked the odds: there was bound to be a Cylon in each, and if one caught sight of him and Andrea Pulaski, they were most likely doomed. And he had flown such a ship only once before, with Apollo—his throat tightened at that: Apollo, the friend of a lifetime, whom he would never see again. “Frack!” Starbuck hissed to himself. Now was not the time.

He made up his mind; he gave Andrea Pulaski’s hand a warning tug. Then, for a long and breathless centon, he and Andrea Pulaski were in the open, running for the nearest Raider. _Don’t look at the other ship_ , Starbuck’s mind was telling him. _Concentrate on the one you’re going for. Don’t look at the other one_. Then they were at the Raider’s open hatch and Starbuck had brought up the laser rifle and aimed it at the Cylon inside. The Cylon fell back in a shower of sparks.

“Ooh,” said Andrea Pulaski.

Starbuck dragged her into the Raider and closed the hatch. He pushed her into one of the seats and seated himself beside the defunct Cylon. The ship, built for the larger Cylons, was poorly proportioned for humans; Starbuck felt like a small child in a ship sized for adults.

Now, then: turbos on, turbolasers on, hatch sealed, onboard computer working, fuel mixture just rich enough to provide a blast of power, pilot strapped in, thrilled passenger shoved back into her seat and strapped in, and—now!

To Starbuck’s slightly amazed pleasure, the Raider lifted, wobbled a little, and steadied. He let out a whoop of joy at the sight of the sinking horizon. Starbuck was back in the sky.

Cylon Raiders are built to be flown by both a pilot and a copilot, but if—as Starbuck’s instructors at the Academy had hinted—one human was the equal of two Cylons, then one human should be able to pilot a Cylon ship alone. This was perhaps truer in the abstract than in reality, but the old Starbuck luck and skill were back in full force, and he felt invincible.

“Oooh,” Andrea Pulaski said, as the ship rose and rotated.

The other Raider still sat where it had been, its pilot perhaps too surprised by events to take action. That surprise was its undoing. Starbuck boosted the power to the turbolasers, took aim, fired. The force of the resulting explosion rocked their own ship for a centon.

“Awesome!” shrilled Andrea Pulaski. “Like, I bet you’d be totally max at Space Ace!”

“Maybe,” said Starbuck. For Sagan’s sake! He’d thought those gall-monging Cylons had a language full of feldergarb! Andrea Pulaski sometimes sounded as if she’d been sniffing plant vapors, but hers was a language close to his own and he’d learn it, though it would probably be as difficult as shooting down a Raider with a numo.

Frack! Starbuck’s trusty laser pistol still lay somewhere around the alien ship, but he had no time to look for it: Baltar might be growing impatient enough to try signalling the Centurions and—failing to get an answer—to send a couple Raiders to see what had happened. Starbuck and Andrea Pulaski had to be long gone before that happened.

But first they had to take on supplies. Starbuck made a jarring landing near his disabled Viper, hoping that he had not damaged the Raider in the process. He and Andrea Pulaski hauled the mangled Cylon out of the ship.

“Are we, like, going home now?” Andrea Pulaski asked.

Now was the time for a straight answer. “Well—” said Starbuck. “We’ll probably only have enough fuel and supplies to get us to the nearest Colonial outpost. There we can do some trading and maybe pick up enough to get a little farther, but—” He felt a centon of yearning for the _Galactica_ —for Cassie, Apollo, Boomer, Athena and all those others he felt close to—that was close to physical pain, but he had to face facts. He probably would never see them again. “—but I don’t think we’ll get ‘home,’ exactly. Besides, do you know the way to Earth?”

“Well, no.” Andrea Pulaski looked as if she might cry.

“Look,” Starbuck said with forced cheer. “There’s a whole universe out there, and we can see it. We’ll find all kinds of adventures and meet all kinds of people. And maybe—if the Lords of Kobol are with us—” he added piously, “—we’ll _get_ home.” Suddenly he half believed this himself.

“The Lords of what?” Andrea Pulaski asked sadly.

“Tell you later. Right now we have to get supplies.”

They carried all he had—food, water, home-brewed grog—into the ship. Feelingly slightly disloyal, Starbuck cannibalized what was left of his lifeless viper, draining its solium to put into the Raider’s fuel tanks, transferring its oxygen tanks to the other ship. This was hard work, for he did not have all the tools he needed, and he could have used some help, but when he impatiently asked Andrea Pulaski for assistance—

“Say what?” she asked.

Starbuck straightened and stared at her. Suddenly it occurred to him that Andrea Pulaski certainly was nice, but that she was going to be absolutely no practical use at all.

She stared levelly at him. “You’ve got, like, this great big smudge right across your nose,” she informed him.

He sighed and went back to work.

Andrea Pulaski was still mournful when it came time for takeoff. So mournful was she, in fact, that Starbuck gave her a swig of his home brew to cheer her up—forgetting, of course, that neither of them had eaten that day. She was nicely relaxed during takeoff and vocally appreciative of the stars toward which they flew.

“Are we, like, getting away from that gross Baltar?” she asked.

Starbuck assured her that they were—hoping that he was telling the truth.

“Oh,” Andrea Pulaski said happily. “You, like, rescued me. That’s awesome.”

And it did indeed seem that he _had_ rescued her, for the Cylon transmissions that Starbuck was monitoring grew fainter and fainter and finally disappeared. They had slipped away and would be long gone before anyone was the wiser.

For the first time that day, Starbuck relaxed. He set the autopilot and stretched. Andrea Pulaski was giggling.

“I, like, never even really _liked_ science fiction,” she said. “And now I _are_ one.” The thought made her giggle again, and then harder, until she lapsed into a gentle, bemused smile.

Starbuck grinned. He was off that gall-monging planet, he had a ship, and he’d found a girl who was now becoming sweetly drunk and—well— _pliable_. The Starbuck luck was back. It was good to know he hadn’t lost his touch.

He gave her his famous knock-’em-dead smile and fanned his deck of well-worn cards.

Then Lieutenant Starbuck made a suggestion that his ego would regret many times in the future: “Let me show you a card game—real simple. We could play it for a small wager—say, a little piece of clothing. You’ll like it. It’s called ‘Pyramid’.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to amuse a friend, who physically resembled Cassandra; I couldn’t resist using her as the “body” for Andrea. Personality-wise, though, they couldn’t be different: Andrea’s my take on the Valley Girl, as she was emerging in the early 1980s. And, yes, that’s a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt she’s wearing; they got very popular around then. (And, if I remember right, “Space Ace” was one of the earliest video games.)
> 
> I also wrote to story to “fix” one of the greatest crimes in the BSG series (besides _Galactica 1980_ , which I detested): that Starbuck— _Starbuck!_ —ended up stranded by himself on an uninhabited planet. I adored the character (I’ve always had a soft spot for charming rogues), and I simply had to rescue him. I like to think they go on to have a hundred adventures together—and to eventually even learn each other’s language. 
> 
> Maybe.


End file.
